


Soldiers, Scones, & Pinky Promises

by Hallucina



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-13 11:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11183748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hallucina/pseuds/Hallucina
Summary: Childhood friends Steve and Bucky made a pinky promise to marry each other by thirty if neither of them had found someone else. But fast-forward seventeen years: Steve is a veteran working at the Chip, an incredibly hipster coffee shop, when he nearly brains a mysteriously familiar stranger with a Frisbee only to find that his former best friend is kinda-maybe-sorta an assassin.In which there are old memories, new friends, too many guns for five people to reasonably possess, and an overabundance of gluten-free scones.





	1. Chapter 1

            Steve finishes wiping down the counter with a sigh, the vintage, rusted lights of the coffee shop casting strange flickering shadows on the windows. He stares out at the rest of the crumb-littered tables he needs to wipe down with dismay. Earlier that day, a toddler had attempted to mate several scones with the table while his blue-haired mother chattered on over a cup of chai. Gluten-free, vegan scones, of course.

            Unfortunately, gluten-free vegan free-range organic whatever-else-they-are scones are still just as difficult to get off the table when they’ve been liberally pounded into the cracks by a toddler’s meaty fist. Steve scrubs the table down so hard it nearly knocks over and he takes a breath before steadying it. He’s been at the shop all day, covering for his sick coworker by taking back-to-back shifts, and he’s exhausted. It’s nearly eight and all he wants to do is go home and curl up with a movie.

            He moves on to sponging off unidentified sticky liquid from another table – probably one of their signature juices (if not, he doesn’t want to know _what_ it is) – when his phone rings loudly in the buzzing quiet, startling him enough that he nearly drops it. Rain patters on the rooftops and trails down the windowpanes.

            “Hello?” Steve says, balancing the phone on his shoulder as he moves on to the next table, where it looks as though a muffin has been disemboweled.

            “Steve! Buddy, where have you been?” Sam says cheerfully. Muffled jazzy notes weave through the tinny speaker and underscore his words.

            “I took a shift for Monica, she was out sick today,” Steve explains, huffing a breath in annoyance as he spills some crumbs on the floor. Damn. “You have no _idea_ how ready I am to leave this place.”

            “I can’t believe you started working there in the first place,” Sam replies, and Steve can just _see_ him shaking his head in disgust. “You’re a goddamn hipster!”

            “I am not a _hipster,_ ” Steve retorts, falling back into the familiar argument easily. He’s smiling despite himself. “I _serve_ hipsters. I will never join the dark side of… vegan pastries,” he says, casting a dark look at the last crumbly table.

            “Man, no matter how much you deny it, you have a hipster heart of gold. Or maybe tin, gold is too mainstream. Ah ah ah,” Sam tuts, talking over Steve as he tries to cut in, “You take art classes and you work at the Chip, for God’s sake. Next I know you’ll be sporting a beard and a man bun.”

            “That is cruel and unusual punishment, Wilson,” Steve says, grinning despite himself as he wipes down the remains of another scone. “Though I think I could rock a beard.”

            Sam snorts. “You’d look like a lumberjack. Or maybe a trucker. C’mon, hipster, you’re done at eight, right? We’re at Nancy’s. Get your ass over here and escape the suffocating Pinterest décor.”

            Steve exhales gustily, heading around the counter to put away the cleaning supplies and wash his hands. “I don’t know, Sam… I’m kinda beat. I have work tomorrow.”

            “Yeah, so do I, but I’m still here making poor life choices.”

            “You have _class_ , and when your classes start at five in the morning, then you can complain.” Steve dries off his hands on a towel and goes into the back room, hanging up his apron and grabbing his jacket off the hook. It’s made of worn leather that he’s had for years and he settles into it comfortably.

            “It’s not my fault you’re crazy and wake up at the asscrack of dawn to work out,” Sam says indignantly. “Clint and Natasha are here and I’m third-wheeling on their strange psychic bro-bond. Don’t leave me hanging, dude.”

            Steve takes the store keys with a jingle of metal and heads to the door, shutting off the lights as he goes. The owner already left, the bastard. He locks the double doors behind him as he steps out into the cold night. “Fine,” he says lightly, his breath misting in clouds around his face. “But one bad hipster joke and I’m out.”

            “Done,” Sam says, and claps his hands – Steve can hear it in the background. “But I make no promises. See you in five?”

            “Will do,” Steve replies, and slips the phone into his pocket. His hands go to his jacket pockets – and shit, he needs to buy gloves, winter is approaching fast.

            He sets off at a brisk walk toward the nearest metro station, leaving the _Chipped Teacup_ sign motionless and dark behind him. He snorts a laugh – most people, Sam included, called it the Chip and left it at that.

            Sliding his yellow metro card through the reader, he catches a train that drops him off a block away from Nancy’s. Light glints off of the wet pavement and he hunkers down in his jacket, trying to keep the raindrops out of his collar. A group of smokers sit on the step in front of a restaurant and the acrid scent makes his eyes blink. Their laughter follows him as he opens the black, peeling door and it creaks shut behind him.

            Nancy’s was an old favorite of Sam and Steve’s from college – near their old shared apartment, it was the perfect place to kick back and have a few drinks after a shitty day. A hole-in-the-wall, there were minimal tourists and a familiar crowd.

            Jazz floats through the air as he searches the pub, spotting a flash of red hair and making his way over to the booth. Natasha greets him with a “hey, look who finally showed up,” as he slides into the seat next to Sam.

            “Sorry,” Steve replies, shucking his jacket off. “Had to clean up the remains of a gluten-free massacre.”

            “Oh yeah? Who won?” Clint asks, taking a swig of his beer. Clint was one of Natasha’s coworkers, though it definitely went back farther than that. Steve had never asked. When two of his best friends worked for a private security organization, he learned pretty quickly that it was pointless to ask questions about it. All they would do was snigger about “Budapest” anyways.

            “I think it was the raspberry scones,” Steve says easily, flagging down a waiter. After ordering, he continues, “Considering they were in the hands of a toddler, it wasn’t really a contest.”

            Clint groans. “The hipsters are growing up and having hipster children,” he bemoans. “This sucks.”

            Natasha leans forward and wraps her hands around her drink, planting her elbows firmly on the scratched table. “You’re practically a toddler yourself,” she remarks, flicking a bead of condensation in his direction.

            Clint opens his mouth to protest before Natasha cuts him off. “So, Steve,” she says, smiling in a way that has Steve making a face. “There’s a really cute girl that I sometimes run with, and—”

            Steve holds up his hands. “No, no, I _definitely_ need a drink to deal with this,” he says, laughing. “Seriously, though, I’m too busy right now.”

            Nat frowns, pouting out her lower lip. “There’s a hot guy who makes the best sandwiches at the local place near my apartment,” she wheedles.

            Steve rolls his eyes. “Unbelievable.”

            “You’re not busy; you work at the Chip,” Sam butts in. “ _I’m_ busy. I have a paper due tomorrow that I still need to cite and my group project is due in two days. I’m stuck with that motherfucker Hammond. Do you know how difficult this is?”

            Steve sighs. “I’m still taking art classes at the college when I can; I’m trying to build up my portfolio. It may not be, you know, med school—” he gestures toward Sam, “Or secretly kicking ass for sketchy private companies, but I have a lot to do. The Chip is just temporary.”

            “Whatever you say, Cap,” Natasha says breezily. “Maybe you just got eyes for a hot hipster.”

            Steve shakes his head as his beer arrives. “You guys are never going to let that go, will you?” He asks, taking a sip.

            Sam arches a brow and raises his glass to him in toast. “You know it.”

            He then launches into a story about that motherfucker Hammond, who apparently can’t deal with the group project without calling his girlfriend every two minutes to have poorly-disguised phone sex. Steve nurses his drink as he muses about the group’s teasing. He’s not really a hipster, whatever they say – he’s just too old. The customers who he serves every day seem to get younger and younger, though they’re only college-aged. And, alright, Steve isn’t _ninety_ or something, but there’s something about going to combat before going to college that separates him from his fellow tattoo-sporting coworkers.

            It’s how he became such good friends with Sam, actually – the age difference. Sam was a vet too, though he served with the Air Force instead of the Army, and they bonded in college through… well… shared experience.

            “Steve, man, you there?” Clint asks, snapping his fingers an inch from Steve’s nose.

            Steve startles before his mouth curves into a smile. “Sorry. I wasn’t lying when I said I was beat,” he says, shooting a look at Sam. He’s engrossed in a conversation with Natasha that contains a lot of animated gestures and something about stilettos. “I think I’ll probably turn in.”

            He stands up and stretches, feeling his joints pop. Downing the last of his beer, he pulls out his wallet before Clint stops him with a hand on his arm.

            “Don’t worry, I got it,” Clint says, mouth twisting into a small smile. “My treat.”

            Steve stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Thanks, Clint. Next time, it’s on me. Thursday?”

            Clint sprawls back into the booth, flashing him a thumbs up. “Sounds good. Nat might be late though.”

            “I might be late to what?”

            Clint nods towards Steve. “Drinks. Thursday. Or dinner, we haven’t decided yet.”

            She scans Steve’s standing form. “Sorry, I’m taking up a new project then. Let me walk you out,” she offers, standing up and scooting past Clint. They have some strange exchange of Pong with their eyes before he nods. Steve hides a smile.

            “Really, it’s fine—”

            “Shut up, Rogers, and let me walk you out,” she says, hooking her arm around Steve’s smartly. She shoots off a wave to Clint and Sam. “See you boys in a sec.”

            She walks him out the door, her breath huffing in clouds. The constant background noise of the city intensifies as the still-swinging door muffles the sweet jazz.

            “Listen,” Natasha says, her eyes searching. Her face is tipped up and catches some of the still-drizzling rain. “I know you said your gig at the Chip is temporary, but—”

            “It’s definitely temporary.” Steve frowns. “I’m just trying to bulk up my portfolio so I could actually find some work that I’m interested in—”

            Natasha holds up a placating hand. “I know, I know, but I just wanted to let you know that my boss is interested in hiring you.”

            Steve blinks. Opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again. “Hiring me? Into… private security?”

            Natasha’s mouth quirks up into a secret smile. “We’re not exactly private security.”

            Steve worries his lip between his teeth, mind racing.

            “You have a fantastic track record and a brilliant tactical mind, Steve,” Natasha says carefully. “You could’ve advanced extremely far up the ranks if you stuck with the military. I’m just saying… you have options.”

            He looks down at his shoes. “Well, that’s… quite an offer. I’ll… I’ll have to think about it.”

            Natasha nods, her hair shining with raindrops. “Take your time. We’ll be waiting.” She starts walking backwards, towards the door. “Thursday, right?”

            “Yeah,” Steve says, and she flashes a smile before pushing her way back inside. A few notes of music leak out into the air and Steve scuffs his shoes against the cracked sidewalk. “Thursday.”

            He walks to the metro station, head down; Natasha’s offer swirls in his head. Get back into combat again.

            Steve boards a train and sighs, running a hand through his hair as he sways on the flickering subway car. The rattling of the tracks screams in the darkness.

            He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss it.

 

***

 

            A fist connected solidly with Steve’s face, skidding off his cheekbone and knocking him to the ground. Pain exploded across his vision. He put his thin wrists underneath him as he struggled to get up, gasping for breath, arms trembling at the effort.

            “What, you can’t stay down?” A voice jeered, laced with childlike cruelty. A booted foot planted itself in the middle of his back and forced him down again, the breath whooshing out of his lungs as he slipped and skidded on dropped papers and books. The asphalt bit uncomfortably into his knees.

            “Shut up,” Steve wheezed, now on all fours as he attempted to clamber to his feet. The smell of garbage and a faint, metallic tinge of blood hung heavy in the air.

            “What was that?” The boy – the bully – with tousled black hair and a sharkish smile – leaned down condescendingly to Steve’s level. Even as Steve stood shakily, he was at least a foot shorter than him.

            He shoved Steve with both hands, hard, making him stumble. “What was that?” He asked again, mockingly. “You want me to—”

            Steve wiped the trickle of blood on his mouth with the back of his hand, and spit at his feet. “Leave me _alone_ ,” he snarled, and glared through the bruise he could feel swelling around his eye.

            The other boy’s face twisted with anger and he raised his fist threateningly. “You little—”

            But he never got the chance to finish, because someone else’s fist was coming out of nowhere and socking him in the jaw.

            “Hey, back off,” said the newcomer, shooting the boy a gaze that could shatter windows. He scowled, grey-blue eyes narrowing in distaste, fists held at the ready. He couldn’t be older than Steve himself, but the defiance that quaked his small figure was enough to make the bully reconsider. Two opponents put him at a disadvantage, even if one of them was a tiny, bleeding asthmatic.

            “Fine,” he spit, backing off slowly. “Whatever. Watch your back, Rogers.” He was at the end of the alleyway before he added, “Your boyfriend won’t always be around to save you!”

            The new boy stared after him with a look of disgust on his face, grimy hands still clenched. “Wow,” he said, as the bully turned the corner. “What a dick.”

            Steve only stared at him, at the boy’s now-reddening knuckles and disheveled brown hair. The curse word flowed easily from his lips as though he was used to saying it.

            The boy bit his lip, and then stuck his hand out. “My name’s Bucky. Bucky Barnes.”

            Steve’s chin jutted out defiantly as he used the proffered hand to pull himself up. “Steve Rogers.” The boy’s – Bucky’s – grip was firm, and he let go almost immediately.

            Bucky looked down. “Here,” he said, and started picking up the books and papers that had spilt when the bully had confronted Steve about – something, he didn’t remember; he was too lost in the bright flush on Bucky’s cheeks.

            When Bucky started shoving the papers into Steve’s arms, he startled. “No, um – I’m fine, thank you.”

            Bucky rolled his eyes and snorted. “It’s no big deal, pal,” he said, and held out the last book to him. Scanning the title, he looked up and grinned. “Cool. I like sci-fi.”

            “Thanks,” Steve stammered out, and took the offered book to tuck into his backpack. He hunched his shoulders and tried to scoot past Bucky, towards the street, but was stopped by a hand on his arm.

            “Whoa, where do you think you’re going?”

            Steve’s heart dropped into his stomach. Did he want some sort of repayment? Did he just want the chance to beat Steve up himself? “Home, actually, I should have been there 30 minutes ago.”

            “Let me walk you there,” Bucky offered and that… was not what Steve had been expecting. He blinked.

            “Okay,” he managed, too blindsided by that quicksilver grin to refuse. He scuffed the ground with his worn sneakers, awkward all of a sudden. Usually, whenever the bully or his gang would ambush him – on the playground, the way home from school, the tiled hallways – he’d put up a feeble fight and everyone else would act like they couldn’t hear it, couldn’t even see it. Gazes slid off him like water from duck feathers. But then again, he’d never seen Bucky at school before, though he certainly couldn’t be in high school –

            “Hey,” Bucky said, bumping his shoulder companionably. His gaze skittered down to Steve’s bloodied knees and up to the bruise on his cheek. “You okay there?”

            “Yeah.” Steve shook his head, like a dog, to dispel his thoughts. “Yeah. Sorry.”

            Bucky gestured towards the street with one careless hand. “Lead the way.”

            They walked the way to Steve’s house in only slightly uncomfortable silence, Bucky occasionally interjecting something about the funny lady at the grocery store or the mad chase after a dog he experienced the other day. He seemed to know everything about the neighborhood.

            “See that?” Bucky said, pointing out a dark green building they passed by. The paint was peeling off of it in sheets. “That’s old Ms. Hendrickson’s house. She’s had like seven husbands but the only thing she really loves is that mangy cat of hers. Makes a killer coffee cake, though,” he added.

            Steve would smile and respond most times, or laugh at Bucky’s bad jokes. He felt unreasonably shy around this boy, who could carry a whole conversation with his hands.

            They stopped in front of Steve’s apartment building, the paved steps cracked with age. He hitched his backpack up and started climbing the steps. “This is my place,” he said self-consciously. “Uh – thanks again, really. You probably saved my mom a lot of worrying.”

            Bucky looked down, scratching the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “No biggie,” he said. “I live like a block away from here, so. If you want, you can – yeah.”

            Steve looked down at him from the top of the steps, where he was turning away, his hands thrust awkwardly into the pockets of his too-big navy jacket.

            “Hey,” he called out boldly, and Bucky turned back towards him. His eyes were questioning. “You like lasagna? My mom’s making some for dinner tonight.”

            Bucky’s answering grin was blinding.

 

***

 

            Steve’s alarm goes off with a hellish scream at 3:30 am, causing him to blink open bleary eyes before shutting it off with one heavy-handed fist. He focuses his blurry vision on the ugly tan paint of his bedroom ceiling. After a few moments of silent, internal conflict, he gets up with a sigh and makes his bed. Tucked tight with sharp corners, army-made.

            He yawns widely and changes into running gear, heading to the door to pull on his shoes. He tucks his phone and keys into his pockets and decides against earbuds. Casting an assessing look at the kitchen, he shrugs – he’ll get breakfast later.

            His thoughts quiet, he takes the subway to Prospect Park to run as hard as he can. It’s a good way to burn off excess energy and shake away the clinging filaments of the night’s dreams – ever since he came back, he’s been plagued with nightmares. They used to be worse.

            Sam, as a psychiatry student, reliably informs him that he probably has PTSD. As if Steve didn’t know he couldn’t stand fireworks. Sometimes, it’s more of a pain in the ass than not to have someone who knows how to get around in his head.

            He runs two laps around the entire park before stopping, chest heaving in silent breaths. He takes a swig from his water bottle and roots around in his pockets for his phone – it’s only 4:18; he has time for another lap or so.

            Steve’s phone buzzes suddenly, Natasha’s picture flashing up on the screen. He presses the talk button after wiping his hands on his shorts.

            “Hello?”

            “Hey, you near the gym? I need a sparring partner.”

            Steve glances around to get his bearings. “I can be there in five.”

            “See you there. Prepare to get your ass whooped.”

            She hangs up before Steve can formulate a proper comeback.

            He jogs to the metro station and takes the subway to their local gym – a vet runs it, and the four of them are all regulars. Right below it is a shooting range that Clint adores and the rest of them sometimes use, but above the regular slew of treadmills and weights is Steve’s personal favorite – the floor full of mats, makeshift rings, and punching bags.

            That makes him sound like some sort of meathead, but as Natasha would say – he probably is one. At least, in some respects. Like his workout routine.

            Steve waves to the owner at the front desk, who nods him through as he heads downstairs, the smell of polished wood and the faint odor of sweat hitting his nose. He spots Natasha stretching on one of the mats. She jumps up lithely when she sees him and waves him over, her boxing tape already wrapped securely around her knuckles.

            He wraps his own tape and does a couple stretches himself, setting his phone and keys on the bench. Natasha has some of the best fighting skills he’s ever seen, though he has no idea where she learned them – if he’s not prepared, he’s going to get more than his ass kicked.

            On the mat, Natasha explodes into motion – no waiting around or warming up. Dodging his two jabbing punches, she aims a kick solidly toward his stomach.

            “So, I’m going to set you on a date,” she says as Steve twists, the kick skating off his ribs. He grabs her leg and flips her over, but she tucks into a roll and comes up before he can press his advantage.

            “I told you, I’m not looking for one,” he grunts. They’re exchanging fast blows now, and he blocks a hit from her that jars his forearm.

            “That’s why I’m looking for you,” she says, not even breathing hard. He ducks, catching her wrist, but she uses the momentum to plant both feet in his chest and make him stumble backward.

            Natasha’s up on him in an instant, a whirl of motion that gets him twice in the ribs, and he elbows her in the shoulder before kicking out her kneecap. She goes down, hard, but sweeps out a leg that knocks him off balance. He throws two punches that go wide and one that catches her in the stomach before she’s swinging around him to get an arm around his throat.

            He rolls forward in an attempt to fling her off, and she dives to the side to avoid getting crushed under his weight. But before he can spring to his feet, she twists and brings her leg down on his chest, knocking a breath out of him.

            Steve brings a hand down, the side of his palm hitting the ground loudly where her ankle used to be as he rolls onto his back. And then she’s on him, flipping so that her thighs are wrapped around his neck and her arms are pinning down his shoulders.

            Natasha cocks her head at him and smiles, blowing a strand of red hair out of her face. “So,” she says, deliberately digging her thumbs into a pressure point. “Running girl or sandwich guy?”

            Steve laughs, and relaxes. “Sandwich guy,” he decides, before twisting and bringing up both hands to shove Natasha off with a solid hit to the stomach. She lands on her ass and he laughs again as he springs to his feet, offering her a hand up.

            She bats it away, an offended look on her face, and gets up to punch him in the shoulder. “You’re a dirty cheater, Rogers,” she says, but her face is amused.

            “I never said ‘uncle,’” Steve points out, unwrapping his tape. He checks his phone – it’s only 4:34 – and Natasha sighs.

            “I’ll text you the details,” she says, and waves a threatening finger at him. “And you’re not skipping out of this one, I know your schedule.”

            Steve raises his eyebrows. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. He jerks a hand towards the door. “I’m headed out. Tell Clint I say hi.”

            “I will if he ever gets his lazy ass over here,” she calls after him as he leaves.

            He hums to himself, content, as he takes a drink from his water bottle and swipes his metro card to head back to his apartment. It’s 4:44 by the time he unlocks his front door and goes inside to take a shower and make himself a breakfast of eggs and toast.

            He never used to be a morning person. Guess the army drilled that into him.

            Once he’s fully dressed and fed, he takes the subway to the Chip, sighing. At least he doesn’t have to cover for Monica today. He jostles through the early morning crowd, his bag bouncing against his thigh as he climbs the stairs leading out from the metro station. The doors to the Chip are already unlocked and the two other baristas that have his same shift are already there.

            Steve goes to the back room, waving at their hellos, and hangs his set of store keys and his jacket up, tying his apron around his back. The air smells like fresh coffee and the usual slew of hipster mom pastries. The banana bread isn’t too bad, but the muffins taste like bricks.

            He washes his hands before fixing a coffee for himself, the door jingling cheerfully as the first trickle of people start coming in. In another hour or so, the place will be in full swing as the organic work crowd stops by for their daily dose of caffeine and chat.

            Steve smiles at an elderly woman as she orders a drip coffee with room for cream and groans inwardly as he prepares for a long, long day.

            The morning flies by in a haze of drink orders and gourmet scones, and Steve buzzes around until his feet are numb in his sneakers. He makes it out relatively unscathed (he was only turned into a makeshift napkin once), calling out a goodbye to his shift-mates as he jingles the door closed behind him at noon.

            His art class doesn’t start until two, so he has a couple hours to eat lunch and catch up on his sketching homework – he missed class yesterday covering for Monica, and his teacher had assigned him five pages to fill and at least twelve thumbnails for his upcoming project.

            Steve slumps down in the corner seat at his favorite café – it has a view of the busy street and he likes to people-watch while he draws. He waves hello to the waitress as she comes over.

            “Heya, Steve,” she says, smiling. “Your usual, I assume?”

            “You know it. Thanks, Laura.”

            “No problem.” She looks him over as she fills his water glass, eyes sweeping. “Rough day?”

            Steve sighs, and offers a weary smile. “Nah. Just long.”

            Laura nods knowingly. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she calls over her shoulder as she walks over to the next table.

            Steve pulls his sketchbook and various pens and pencils from his bag and starts cracking away at the five pages, filling them with anything and everything – the funky outfit of the guy walking by, an elegant wrist reaching into a black patent-leather purse, the steam curling off a hot mug of tea that Laura brings him, her black hair tied up in a ponytail. It’s organic and natural and what Steve was made to do _if he could just find a job._

            Well. There’s something else that’s organic and natural that he _can_ find a job for, but it involves considerably more violence.

            He bites absentmindedly into his sandwich as he traces over the curve of an ear. With a loud buzzing, his phone goes off, and he picks it up with an unfortunately large amount of food in his mouth.

            “Steve Rogers,” he says, swallowing – the words are only slightly muffled.

            _“Steve,”_ Natasha practically purrs, and he rolls his eyes. What a surprise. _“I set up a date with sandwich guy for you – he was all for it once I showed him some of those pictures of you at the gym. Anyway, it’s –”_

            “Hold on, I didn’t know you have pictures of me at the gym.”

            He can virtually hear Natasha’s shrug over the phone. _“How else would I convince people to go on a date with a guy they’ve never even seen?”_

            “I don’t know, you’re very persuasive,” Steve mutters, inking a man’s beard in with quick strokes.

            _“Damn right I am. So persuasive that I got him to take you out to that trendy place near the park, the one with all the fairy lights outside.”_

            Steve resigns himself to this date at a trendy, probably very young place – okay, he’s got to stop acting like he’s a nonagenarian. It will be fun. Probably.

            _“–the reservation is at seven, so be there then. It’s under his name – Lucas. Just go have fun, Steve,”_ she says, sounding exasperated.

            Steve huffs out a laugh. “Alright, alright. I’ll do my very best. Scouts honor.”

            _“Were you even a Scout?”_

            Steve grins. “No.”

            He finishes his sandwich – hah, sandwich guy – and begins work in earnest on his thumbnails, frowning. He can’s seem to settle on a composition, but he’s got around fifteen and it’s nearly a quarter to two, so he packs up all his supplies and leaves with a wave goodbye to Laura. His classes are only a couple blocks from the café, which is why he frequents it so much, and he walks briskly towards it in the chilled air.

            The sky above is overcast; the uniform clouds somehow a bright grey. He remembers Bucky would always love the weather like this, for some reason – crisp and chill with the clouds vivid overhead.

            He sighs, again, shaking off old thoughts like a duck in water. Bucky had to move after sophomore year in high school and Steve hasn’t seen him since. It’s strange that his thoughts would turn to him now.

            Steve pushes open the door to the studio, the warm yellow light spilling out onto the sidewalk. He heads up the tight, carpeted staircase, his shoulders nearly brushing the walls (and it’s still strange that he’s too _big_ for places now) and opens the door to quietly slip inside the studio. It’s full of mostly college kids, with a few older-looking individuals like himself scattered throughout. A model is posing in the center with easels ringed around it, and Steve hurries to the nearest vacant one and starts taking out his supplies.

            He loses himself in the free lines of charcoal, his world narrowed down to fragile sheets of paper and black dust smudging his fingers. They keep changing the amount of time for poses and he does his best to capture the dynamic figure.

            The model leaves after a while and they spend the rest of their time going over thumbnails for the project they’re about to start. His teacher makes approving noises at most and stars a couple in red pencil after checking that he did his five sketch pages. She claps him on the shoulder and wanders around to the next student. Her hair is done up in an elaborate updo of tiny braids, a few of them a bright purple that stands out against her dark skin, and he outlines that in his sketchbook too.

            The teacher checks her watch and shoos them out as they hurriedly pack their things. Steve still has black dust all over his fingers as he shoves pencils and charcoal sticks into his bag, his sketchbook going in last. His feet scuff the worn stairs as he hurries down before the press of students behind him can make him lose his footing and topple downwards.

            Steve sighs contentedly as he leaves the studio. The bell jingles a cheerful goodbye as the chilled air hits his face like a slap, and he zips up his coat hastily. This is what he _really_ wants to do, not puttering about in a coffee shop.

            Though he does make a mean macchiato.


	2. Chapter 2

            The girls didn’t like him, Steve thought. He was stung but tried to hide it. It wasn’t really a surprise, anymore – even though they were only in middle school, Bucky had started filling out in the shoulders. Steve remained as scrawny as ever, with the inevitable awkwardness that came with pre-teen years.

            So, yeah. The girls didn’t like him, not when someone like Bucky was around.

            Bucky turned around from where he was laughing with the larger group of friends that were accompanying them to the movies. A film about… Steve didn’t even know. Action with a lot of explosions.

            “Stevie! Hurry up, or we’ll miss it!” He called, and then turned back to whisper something in the girl’s ear next to him. She giggled, batting eyes that were glittery with juvenile makeup. Her blonde hair shone under the cheap lights.

            Steve suddenly hated her. “I told you not to call me that anymore,” he muttered halfheartedly, trailing behind the group. His hands were shoved in his pockets but they were still cold, and the stained, popcorn-littered carpet he walked on made squeaky sounds underfoot. And occasionally crunches. Yuck.

            In front of him, one of his friends – one of _Bucky’s_ friends, Steve didn’t really know him – said something that made the other girl gasp and then hit him on the shoulder to raucous laughter.

            They slipped inside the theater with a storm of fierce whispers, Steve taking a seat next to Bucky and the other, brunette girl, who shot him a look. Her nails were bright blue and tapping absentmindedly against the armrest.

            The movie was dull but somehow strangely entertaining, like watching a car crash. Exactly like watching a car crash, in fact, as Steve counted three cars demolished and five blown up in fiery explosions while the hero walked away nonchalantly. It was ridiculous.

            Twice he offered the girl popcorn, and twice she refused, her nose wrinkling daintily as she popped a pink bubble with a loud crack. Steve gave up. When he turned to look at Bucky, he was sucking face with the blonde glittery girl as the hero onscreen destroyed a small army with his superior martial arts skills.

            Steve rolled his eyes and hunched down in his seat.

            He tried to stifle a cough – asthma – and the other girl leaned away from him as if afraid to catch his germs. He scowled. She probably thought he had ruined her chances to make out with Bucky instead of Glittery Blonde.

            Steve groaned inwardly and practically bolted when the movie was over. He knew he was being petty, but… it was just. So. Awkward.

            Besides, he thought bitterly, the stark comparison between Bucky and him was all too obvious in that theater. It didn’t mean he had to continue making it more apparent.

            Their group parted ways at the theater entrance after spilling out into the chilly night, the street lamps illuminating orange pools on the asphalt. Glittery Blonde smacked a kiss on Bucky’s cheek and he laughed as he walked up to where Steve was waiting.

            He did, Steve noticed with vindictive satisfaction, wipe the kiss off surreptitiously.

            Steve walked moodily as Bucky chattered and joked. They were headed up the familiar route to Bucky’s house, passing by chipped mailboxes and stepping carefully over cracks in the sidewalk overgrown with weeds. Finally, Bucky knocked him with his shoulder, throwing Steve off a couple steps.

            “Oh, c’mon, Steve, why’re you being such a grump?” He asked playfully.

            Steve shrugged, eyes downcast. “Why do you bring me to those things, Bucky? They don’t like me and they don’t even _know_ me. It’s just embarrassing. _I’m_ embarrassing,” he added belatedly.

            Bucky stopped and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey now,” he said, eyes searching, “Don’t do that. I’m sure they’ll like you if you just give them the chance. _Some_ of them already think you’re pretty cool.”

            Steve snorted. “As cool as that blonde girl thinks you are, you mean?” It was sarcastic, but he was already cracking a smile at Bucky’s puppy-dog eyes.

            “Even more than that!” Bucky said, grinning, and challenged Steve to race back to his house. He got tripped up on his shoelaces and Steve won, and even though he was pretty sure Bucky gave it to him, it made him laugh anyway.

            It wasn’t until they were both lying in the attic, sleep turning the rest of the city quiet, that Steve started worrying. What if girls _never_ liked him? What if he never got a date and never got married and could never have kids?

            Bucky thumped him on the back. “Go to sleep,” he said, voice muffled by a pillow. His voice was thick with drowsiness. “I can feel you worrying over dumb things.”

            Steve stretched out and tugged the blanket a little tighter around him. They had dragged sleeping pads and blankets and huge, fluffy pillows up to Bucky’s attic to create a fort-like nest to sleep in – Bucky’s room was too small for the both of them anyways. He turned over so he was facing Bucky. “It’s just – ” he began, voice small, and Bucky’s eyes opened a slit at his tone of voice. They gleamed grey in the dark. His messy, tumbled hair was sticking up over his ears, and Steve fought the urge to smooth it down.

            “What if girls _never_ like me?” He asked, voicing his fears plaintively. “What if I can’t ever marry anyone?”

            There was a brief pause, and Steve waited, feeling pathetic. Bucky started speaking so softly Steve had to strain to hear.

            “I’ll tell you – tell you what.” He yawned. “When we’re both old – like, thirty – an – an’ if no one’s married you yet, I will.”

            “Thirty isn’t old, Buck,” Steve said quietly, but his heart was in his throat.

            Bucky opened his eyes a crack more. “Old enough,” he said, and his eyes were fixed on Steve in a way that made his neck heat up. His face had to be bright red by now.

            Steve swallowed, and shuffled a little closer to hold up his pinkie. “Promise?” He whispered.

            “I promise,” Bucky murmured, hooking his pinkie around Steve’s and closing his eyes sleepily. A minute later, a foghorn snore reverberated around the room and a warm feeling bloomed in Steve’s chest, his grin so wide it made his face hurt.

            Their hands stayed like that, hooked in a promise, until morning.

 

***

 

            Well, Steve thinks nostalgically, turns out he worried himself sick for nothing. Although he had been skinny and sickly all through high school, by senior year he was at least well enough to enlist. When he joined up it was like an explosion – his late growth spurt springboarded him up to 6’2 and he gained over a hundred pounds of muscle. When he came back, girls – and guys – looked at him like they never had before. It was disconcerting.

            He still can’t shake the phantom finger around his pinkie.

            Steve slides into the booth with a rueful smile at the man sitting in front of him, shrugging his jacket off. “I’m really sorry, traffic held me up,” he says, running a hand through his hair sheepishly. It’s mostly true, though he didn’t help by spacing out for a while. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

            Sandwich guy smiles handsomely, his teeth startlingly white against his skin. “Hey, no worries,” he says, his gaze running up appreciatively. He’s got stubble and eyelashes so long they hardly look real, his white tank top showing off toned arms.

            And – Steve has got to stop referring to him mentally as sandwich guy. He sticks his hand out over the table. “Steve Rogers,” he says, hoping to god that it doesn’t come off as strange. “I don’t know what Nat told you about me, but you should probably take it with a grain of salt.”

            The guy laughs. “I don’t know; she certainly wasn’t exaggerating about those shoulders.” He clasps Steve’s hand warmly and gives it a firm handshake, fingers trailing a little longer than necessary. “Lucas Greene. Natasha’s one of my regulars.”

            “Regulars?” Steve asks, as the waiter comes over to fill their water glasses.

            Lucas shrugs, a smile still curling the corners of his mouth. “For future reference, she likes turkey, Havarti, arugula, sundried tomato, and a little pesto on sourdough.”

            Steve shakes his head, impressed. “ _That_ kind of regular. I’ll definitely have to keep that in mind.”

            Lucas crosses his arms on the table, taking a sip from his water glass. “So how did you meet her?”

            Steve thinks back a little bit. He has a photographic memory, but that point in his life was difficult – freshly discharged, every bang making him startle, a furrow between his brows that he can’t erase today – no, it wasn’t pleasant.

            “Hmm,” he muses, trailing his fingers absently through the condensation building up on his glass. “Well, Nat’s company likes to hire vets if they’re stable, especially if they’re high-ranking. She found me through the VA. I didn’t know she was scouting me, of course, but we became friends – she didn’t tell me why she was there in the first place until I’d known her for months.”

            Lucas leans forward, glancing down at Steve’s dogtag chain visible above his shirt collar. “Military, huh? I guess that explains the shoulders.” Steve laughs, and Lucas leans back slightly. “So… her company? What does she do?”

            “I don’t think when Nat set up this date she thought we’d be talking about her the whole time,” Steve says, softening the words with a smile. “She’s in private security – SHIELD. Though if you ask me, she’s more like a secret agent.”

            “Mission Impossible style?” Lucas teases, but there’s a slight flush on his cheeks. He scratches the back of his neck absently. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to – my brother, he’s in the air force. Just shipped out for his second tour.”

            “Oh,” Steve says, the realization hitting him like a sack of bricks. “Well, if he’s looking for something after, SHIELD is legit. They’re good people. You should talk to Nat about it next time she orders her super-secret sandwich.”

            Lucas grins. “I’ll do that,” he says quietly, and their conversation progresses naturally from there. It’s a little stilted at times, a little awkward, but it’s by far the best date Natasha has set Steve on since he met her. They part ways after the meal, exchanging numbers on slightly stained napkins, and Steve walks to the metro station with a smile on his face.

            It’s dark when he gets home and only his echoing footsteps fill the rooms. His insomnia paces him around the apartment while the rest of the world sleeps on, wondering, wondering.

 

***

 

            Steve stared.

            “You – you – what?”

            Bucky’s wide, blue-grey eyes looked at him almost pleadingly. “I’m – ” he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His hands kept clenching and unclenching into fists, Steve noticed dazedly. “I told you. I have to move.”

            Steve shook his head, white noise roaring in his ears. His gaze dropped down to Bucky’s scuffing, fretful feet. It was the summer of sophomore year, and they were going to finish high school together, and he couldn’t – he couldn’t –

            “Wha – why?” He stammered. His head pounded.

            Bucky looked anxious. “Dad got a new job in Minnesota and he… well, he… we’re not doing so well either, you know.”

            Steve did know, in fact – it had been nearly five years since that pinky-promise was made, five years to have his heart flutter every time he was around Bucky – and five years for his mom to lose her job and take up one she was overqualified for, five years for Bucky’s mother to fall sick and his father to start looking harried and desperate whenever Steve saw him. Both Bucky and Steve had tried to find jobs, but nobody was willing to hire – Bucky could usually pass as older, but Steve was fresh out of luck. He could only stand by and watch as they all grew thinner.

            Steve managed a feeble smile that cut across his face more like a grimace. “That’s good, that’s… really good. Tell him congratulations from me.”

            Bucky looked reproachful, the corners of his mouth turning down harshly, but his voice was soft. “Don’t do that to me, Stevie, you know I see straight through you.”

            Steve turned a glare on him and was mortified to feel tears prick at his eyes. “Jesus, Bucky. What the hell do you _want_ me to say? That I’m happy for you? That everything is fine? That I can’t – I won’t – ”

            Bucky pulled him into a rough hug and Steve was hiccupping now, trying to keep the tears back, heaving breaths hurting his chest. Dry sobs racked his body but Bucky was rock-solid, running gentle hands down his back as Steve clung to him. They stood there like that in the street for several long seconds, rocking slightly, Steve drinking up Bucky’s warmth like sunlight.

            He coughed, his breaths now sounding wet and wrong, and Bucky let go of him to grab his inhaler from his pocket and give it to him. Steve breathed in, desperately, trying to look anywhere but Bucky with reddened eyes.

           Bucky sighed, exasperated. “I said don’t _do_ that to me, Stevie,” he said, grabbing Steve’s head and pressing their foreheads together. He could feel his hot breath in little puffs so, _so_ close to his lips –

            “I don’t leave until July, so we have a while, okay? We get to celebrate your birthday and complain about Mrs. Harrison and her awful assignments, and we’ll Skype every day and I’ll tell you about Minnesota and you can laugh at me from Brooklyn. And we’ll go to Coney Island and ride the Cyclone and I’ll send you letters every week even though we’ll talk every day and I’ll…” Bucky’s voice was low and did funny things to Steve’s stomach, but he heard the tremble in it.

           

            What followed was bittersweet: they finished tenth grade together and exploded into summer, hot and lazy. If they had always been together before, now it was as though they were glued at the hip – they stole moments on roofs with pilfered booze, swam in the freezing ocean, raced through the city like they could conquer it by trying. When they rode the Cyclone at Coney Island, Steve threw up, and Bucky looked concerned at first and spent the rest of the day howling with laughter.

            They spent Steve’s birthday with shoulders pressed together on the roof of his house, watching the fireworks split open the night sky in a blaze of colors. It was warm, insects buzzing sleepily around the camping lantern Bucky had brought up, and Steve stared at the sky, paralyzed, as the sounds of wild patriotism drifted around them.

            “Hey,” Bucky said, nudging him lightly. “I got you a present. A couple presents, actually.”

            Steve sat up straight at that and narrowed his eyes at him. “I told you not to get me anything!” He protested.

            Bucky rolled his eyes. “You must be the only person in the history of ever to _complain_ about getting presents,” he retorted, rifling through his bag. “Besides, it’s probably… well…”

            Steve slumped back on his hands and sighed. The last birthday they’d spend together.

            Bucky offered a rueful smile and handed him a messily wrapped box. Steve took off the paper slowly while he fidgeted, unveiling a box of colored pencils. And not just any colored pencils: these were _Prismacolors_ , holy shit. He stared at Bucky, shocked.

            “Don’t look at me like that, you practically drooled over them whenever we passed that shop,” Bucky said nervously. He pushed his hair back and Steve’s eyes followed the motion almost unconsciously. “I wanted to get you something nice.”

            He looked down, a flush staining his cheeks pink, and Steve placed the pencils down carefully before tackling him in a hug. Bucky fell over with a startled “ _oomph_ ” and they were nearly nose-to-nose. “ _Thank you_ ,” Steve said fervently, and Bucky laughed.

            “One more,” he said, holding up something that glinted silver. Steve leaned back to let him up and Bucky handed him a pin, shaped like a stylized wing. “You put it on your jacket sleeve, like this,” he said, lip bitten in concentration as he attached it to Steve’s worn blue jacket.

            “I have one too, see?” He said, pulling a second one out from his pocket and pinning it to his own sleeve. Bucky knocked their shoulders together, the pins clinking faintly between them. “Now we match.”

            He grinned and turned back to the fireworks exploding above them, but Steve could only stare at him, drinking in his silhouette until he was drowning in it. His lashes curved up in a dark sweep, disappearing against the sky, his profile outlined softly in golden light from the humming lantern.

            Bucky looked over at him and his gaze dropped down to somewhere around Steve’s chin. His voice was low and a little afraid when he spoke. “I leave this weekend.”

            Steve could only stare.

            That weekend – Saturday morning, 9:34 am – Steve saw Bucky for the last time. He was hanging out of the car window, packed full of boxes, his hair whipping into his face as he stared at Steve with wide blue-grey eyes.

            “I’ll find you! I’ll find you!” Bucky yelled. It was all he seemed to be able to say.

            Steve wanted to shout that he would follow him to the hell and back; he would go with him to the ends of the earth and walk right off the edge if that’s what Bucky wanted. He would run behind that car all the way to Minnesota and capture the sun just to see that smile again. But the words got stuck in his throat and he clapped his hand over his mouth, the _other_ words inside beating a restless tattoo against his lips: _I love you. I love you. I love you._


	3. Chapter 3

 

            Steve catches the disk just barely, fingers closing around the white plastic lip. He pivots sharply and passes it to Sam, who lunges to get it and throws it to Clint, who promptly gets hit in the back of the head.

            “Ow!” Clint says, and turns around angrily. “What the hell?”

            Sam leans back on his heels, crosses his arms. “I thought you were playing!”

            Natasha plucks the disk up from the grass. “He was, but he got distracted by the birds.”

            Clint huffs as she sends it flying back to him, his cheeks reddening. He catches it and flings it to Steve and the cycle continues.

            Sam had called them all around four and suggested they get together for an “intense game of Frisbee” on one of the rare sunny days, which had quickly turned into a game of keep-away. Sam had brought it up mostly to laugh at Steve’s experience during high school as captain of the Ultimate Frisbee team, before yelping and dodging a flying disk that Steve sent his way.

            The sun is setting by now, turning everything golden in the rapidly chilling air. Steve is laughing and Sam is laughing, and so he throws wide when he means to throw straight, the Frisbee rocketing to Sam’s left. Steve sees it as though in slow motion: this poor sap in a baseball cap walking with his hands shoved in his pockets is going to get cracked in the head, and then Steve is going to get arrested for assault by Frisbee while his friends laugh at him for eternity.

            Except, none of that actually happens, because the man looks up and catches the disk with strangely silvery fingers and split-second reflexes. Steve is astonished and trying to hide it, but Sam is gaping. Clint and Natasha were chatting quietly near a tree, but they look over once the usual noise drops away to silence.

            The man throws it back with a speed to rival Steve’s own. He catches it, barely noticing the jolt, because the man’s face – his _face_ –

            “Bucky?” He whispers.

            Because there’s stubble, long hair, dark circles under his eyes, muscles that had never been present in high school, but it’s definitely him. He would know that face anywhere. But the man’s – Bucky’s – eyes only narrow, in confusion or suspicion, and he speeds up his pace as he heads toward the metro station at the edge of the park.

            Steve drops the Frisbee and bolts after him. Startled cries erupt from behind him but he ignores them, because how could Bucky not recognize him? Sure, he’s gotten a lot bigger since tenth grade, but his face isn’t that different, and he thought… he thought…

            Maybe you just weren’t that important to him, Rogers, he thinks with a bitter taste in his mouth. After all, Bucky said he’d find him, and he never did. They talked on the phone every day for the first few months. Then it dwindled to once a week, once a month, once a year to wish happy birthdays. Then Steve left for Afghanistan and it stopped all together.

            He takes the stairs two at a time as he clatters onto the metro platform, but it’s empty by the time he arrives. There’s only the lingering breeze of air and the echoing screech of the tracks that makes the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

            By the time he trudges out of the station, Sam, Nat, and Clint are standing looking worried. He shrugs off their stares with a rueful smile, running a hand through his hair and saying, “Sorry. Thought it was someone I knew.”

 

            The next week passes by in a blur. It’s as if seeing that stranger turned on a switch in his head, and he can’t stop seeing Bucky everywhere he turns. He makes it through art classes and shifts at the Chip in a daze, the routine melting his limbs like wax. It’s only when he’s sparring with Nat or Sam that he feels real, with sweat sliding down his back and his breaths coming heavy in his throat.

            On Monday, as he stares blankly at a page in his sketchbook at the café, a man pulls out the chair across from him and sits down with barely a whisper of sound. Steve raises his head slowly, and sees the same ragged jacket and baseball cap and long brown hair covering piercing grey eyes.

            Bucky motions to Laura, saying, “Coffee. Black, please,” and is sitting with a posture that means he’s ready to bolt. Steve knows. He’s sat in that same postition too many times before.

            “Bucky?” Steve says, the name escaping his lips before he can help it.

            Bucky hunches back, and from under his cap, mutters, “Look, who the fuck are you?”

            A heavy weight drops on Steve’s chest, and now he feels horribly awkward. “I, um… I’m Steve. Sorry. We were friends in grade school.” He laughs shortly. “I didn’t mean to scare you off. I guess being chased through the subway by a stranger would look… kinda bad.”

            Bucky just narrows his eyes at him. “What did you call me?”

            Steve feels his eyebrows twitch. “Sorry?”

            “You called me something. Before and just now. What was it?”

            “Bucky? It was a nickname…? Look, I get if you don’t remember me, but I’m pretty sure that nickname has been around since you were born,” Steve says, feeling childish and unsettled. The truth is, he _doesn’t_ get why Bucky wouldn’t remember him; they’re not that old, and they’d been best friends for years.

            Bucky’s eyes are masking barely concealed dread. He mumbles, “I gotta go,” and takes the coffee Laura brings in on a tray as he stands up. Steve catches his arm.

            “Whoa, wait, I haven’t seen you in years! Come on – what’s been going on in your life?” Bucky gives a strange, chilled shudder at that, and Steve realizes that the wrist beneath his hand is too rigid to be flesh.

            The shock of that – that Bucky is an amputee – startles him enough that he lets go, and Bucky bolts, slipping through patrons like a ghost before he’s gone. Steve just stands there, mouth hanging open in the middle of a silent question, and Laura flickers her eyes at him and says, “I’m not even gonna ask.”

            Steve sits down heavily and pulls out his phone, dialing the only number that will make him feel sane.

            _“Romanoff,”_ Nat answers, clipped.

            “Nat,” Steve says slowly, “My childhood best friend, who I nearly killed with a Frisbee the other day, just accosted me in a café and doesn’t remember me and also is probably an amputee.”

            There’s a long silence. _“I’ll be at your place in twenty.”_

           

            Steve sits with mug of tea as Natasha busies herself making eggs at his stove. He’s not in shock, just confused.

            “Are you even sure it was him?” She was saying, stirring the pan. “It has been _years_ , Rogers.”

            “I mean, I guess it could be someone else… but I’m pretty sure it was him. Plus, why would he come up to me again afterwards?” He stares at his tea, light brown and steaming slightly. “I’m probably overreacting. He doesn’t even know me anymore.”

            “Probably,” Nat agrees, eyeing him from where she’s scraping the eggs onto a plate. She grabs some salsa from his fridge, and her voice is muffled when she continues. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

            Steve stares at her. “Really? What if he’s in trouble? We still haven’t addressed the amputee part.”

            “I’m sure he’s fine,” Nat says, spooning salsa onto her plate and grabbing a fork from the drawer. “I’ll look into it. You could always try Googling him,” she says, flicking her hair over her shoulder. She pulls out a chair and sits down with him.

            “Yeah… good idea,” Steve says, frowning. There’s something fishy about his entire situation. Nat keeps sneaking glances with narrowed eyes, and the air is thick with secrets. She’s not telling him everything.

 

            The next week, when Bucky is shadowing him on his run through the park – he can _feel_ the eyes on his back – and he somehow ends up getting shot at by three black vans full of SWAT-esque agents, he blames Natasha.

            After all, he’s seen the logo of her workplace enough to recognize it.

            He’s trying to cower behind a tree, but the tree isn’t really wide enough to cover his shoulders. Bucky has either bolted or is stuck behind foliage like Steve is. He calls Natasha, hunkering down in the still-dewy grass, but his internal monologue is still mostly a long stream of _whatthefuck._

            As soon as the line connects, he hisses, “Natasha. Why am I getting shot at by vans full of your guys?”

            A long splinter whistles by his ear as his tree proceeds to morph into Swiss cheese. He dodges another chunk of wood and makes his way to another tree, but he still doesn’t think that he’s the main target.

            _“Where are you?”_ Natasha asks. He thinks he can hear her fingers clicking on a keyboard, but it’s kind of hard to tell with the noise of _bullets_ screaming by.

            “Prospect Park. Please don’t tell me this is revenge for when I stole your protein shake.”

            _“Don’t be stupid; I’ll be much more subtle. Is anyone else there?”_

            “I don’t—” He’s interrupted by what looks and sounds like a grenade explosion near one of the vans. “–Okay, well, I thought I saw Bucky snooping around, and someone just threw a grenade, so–”

            Nat curses in Russian. _“Fuck, I knew it. Dammit! Fury didn’t tell me –”_

            Steve has now made his way to cowering behind a boulder, which is resisting the Swiss cheese attempts. “A little help here?” The gunfire sounds ragged, now, less uniform, and there’s definitely return fire coming from _somewhere._

            _“Right. Sorry to break the news to you, buddy, but your childhood BFF is the Winter Soldier.”_

            Steve stares at the rock in silence for a moment. “… I have no idea what that means.”

            _“The lowdown is that he’s an assassin charged with over fifty kills, and no one knows who he works for.”_ She switches to a monotone. _“Please remain calm and leave the affected area if possible.”_

            “Don’t pull out the handbook on me, Nat,” Steve grunts, peering over his boulder. His head is a whirl, but his body knows what to do, moving fluidly and without pause. He ducks behind a shrub and promptly gets grazed in the shoulder, decides he needs more solid cover, and takes refuge behind a churro cart, the owner long gone. The fire isn’t focused on him, though – apparently it’s focused on _Bucky_ – and so he manages to creep away mostly unscathed.

            He does _not_ mention to Nat that he does so by basically becoming the churro cart, and moving it very, very slowly as to avoid suspicion. It’s something straight out of a cartoon.

            Steve takes the metro home, well aware that he’s bleeding through his shirt. The other passengers simply glance over him, their gazes slick, and Steve once again thanks god for New Yorkers. He’s practically holding his breath by the time he gets to his apartment, nearly vibrating at how present and alive he is in this moment, and that’s why he nearly brains Clint with an ornamental lamp when the man surprises him at his door.

            “Jesus Christ, man,” Clint yelps, and twists narrowly out of the way. Steve drops the lamp sheepishly and it clatters on the floor. He’s still breathless and bright-eyed, blood singing from the shooting.

            He could take Clint in a fight, he realizes. He could take him and he’d win.

            Steve comes back to himself slightly as Clint begins talking. “Sorry, dude, Nat told me to come straight over. I’ve been watching what’s been going on,” he tilts his head toward Steve’s TV, which is playing the news, recapping the attack in Prospect Park.

            Clint takes Steve’s arm, gently, and moves him to the couch to sit down. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

            Steve closes his eyes as Clint goes to his bathroom to find his first aid kit – last used when a spectacularly drunken man smashed a bottle on his head in a bar fight – and thinks about the two guns he has hidden in his drawers and the knife in his closet. _Bucky_ , Jesus.

            Clint returns with the kit and sits down next to him on the couch, and rolls Steve’s shirtsleeve up with calloused fingers. “Just a graze, big man. You’re a lucky son of a bitch; I saw what they did to those trees.”

            Steve laughs dryly and tilts his head back. “I was nearly turned into Swiss cheese,” he says, half a smile on his face. It slips off when he starts thinking about the event, coming off the adrenaline high of survival. What was the Winter Soldier, and why did Nat sound so worried about it?

            Clint is butterfly-taping his wound closed when Steve asks, and his fingers still on his arm. “The Winter Soldier… I’m pretty sure this is classified, Steve, but we both know how good I am about rules. The Winter Soldier is…” He sighs, and shifts his weight back, fiddling with a latch on the first aid kit. “I don’t even know. He’s a myth, okay, a story that they’ve assigned over fifty kills to in the past eight years or so. Politicians, drug smugglers, diplomats, CEO’s – he’s the scapegoat, a name all the shitty people throw their crimes under to protect their anonymity. At least… that’s what we thought?” The end rises in a question, and Clint looks uncertain.

            “But it seems like we’ve found _him_ , not _them_ , and it seems like he’s someone you knew.”

            Steve stares at the ceiling. “Shit.”

            Clint barks a laugh. “You’re telling me.” He pauses, and begins packing up the first aid kit. “You want me to stay? Nat told me to get you in case you were hurt, but if you’re doing all right I’m supposed to go back and report. We’ll keep you updated, you know, as much as we can.”

            Steve waves vaguely with his good arm. “Go, go, don’t worry about it. I’m going to take some painkillers and sleep for a year.”

            Clint smiles, a quirk of his mouth that vanishes quickly. “Sleep with one eye open.”

            The door closes behind him silently; dust motes are left swirling in its wake. The apartment seems too quiet after the chaos of this morning but –

            Wait. The door never closed.

            Steve twists quickly, readying himself, and sees Bucky standing in the doorway. Steve’s shoulders slump, but he’s still wound up tight. The tension causes a throb of pain to course through his arm.         

            He waits for Bucky to speak.

            “Steve–” he begins, but he can’t seem to finish, the name dying in a choked off sound. He edges his way in through the door and closes it behind him, stumbling a little. This close, Steve can see that his eyes are bloodshot and he’s bleeding through his shirt.

            Sitting down heavily, Bucky slides down the wall, leaving a thick smear of blood on his way. His hair flutters in front of his face with each shallow breath. It’s as if the moment has been stretched too thin or too long – Bucky’s light breaths, the red, brightest color in the room, the glint of chilly sunlight through the window as dawn finally breaks.

            Steve grabs the first aid kit and kneels down next to him, afraid to touch. As he makes a move to push aside Bucky’s jacket to find the source of the blood, a hand shoots out to grab his wrist, inhumanly strong. The fingers are silvered like bullets.

            “Bathroom,” he rasps, staring at the ground, still refusing to meet Steve’s eyes. “Ears everywhere.”

            Steve jaw tightens, and he’s not sure if Bucky is telling the truth, but he wouldn’t put it past Nat. Pulling one arm over his shoulder – the prosthetic, he thinks, and grunts at the weight – he tugs Bucky to his feet and snags the kit carefully. Bucky’s slow, and limping, but his teeth are clenched and his eyes sharp.

            They make it to Steve’s tiny, New-York-apartment bathroom, and he turns on the shower full blast before motioning to the first aid kit questioningly. Bucky gives a tiny nod, propped up against the tub, red behind him stark against the white porcelain.

            Steve gently peels back the layers of his jacket, some of which are crusting with drying blood. Bucky’s eyelashes are a stark sweep against his pale face, and the red bow of his mouth trembles. He doesn’t make a sound, not even when Steve begins to cut his shirt off in ragged pieces, pulling the soaked fabric away gently.

            He stops short. Bucky’s left arm, from rounded shoulder to fingertip, is completely gleaming metal.

            Bucky flexes silvered fingers as if he can feel Steve’s gaze on them. They move fluidly, silently, a bare whisper lost in the rush of noise from the shower.

            Tearing his gaze away, Steve turns his attention back to Bucky’s wounds. He has a through wound in his side and a wound in his shoulder. When he coaxes Bucky to lean forward, his sweaty forehead resting in the crook of Steve’s neck, there’s no exit. The bullet is lodged deep.

            As Steve leans back, Bucky does too. Steve can see traces of the boy he knew in the set of his chin and the curve of his shoulders, but it’s as if someone only painted in the most general shapes: he is a pale watercolor with blurred edges. He is the echo of Bucky Barnes; he is what is left behind.

            “I think you need to go to the hospital,” Steve says, quietly so that the shower still drowns him out. “I don’t think I have the equipment here. You have a bullet still in your shoulder; I can’t fix that.”

            Bucky curls his lip. “No hospitals,” he rumbles, and adds: “I know you can fix it. I know where you served.” His metal hand clenches into a fist.

            Tensing, Steve just replies calmly, “Alright, no hospitals,” and opens the first aid kit once more, wincing at what he has to do.

            He bandages up the through wound first, after disinfecting it; the rubbing alcohol makes Bucky hiss in pain but he doesn’t move an inch. With trepidation, Steve digs out the tweezers, and twists up a scrap of Bucky’s former shirt for him to bite on to.

            It takes him an agonizing minute or so, where he can hear Bucky panting in the background and his hands slippery on the tweezers with sweat and blood, but in the end he pulls out the biggest fragments of a shell and tells Bucky that’s the best he can do here.

            Bucky grunts in acknowledgement as Steve bandages up his shoulder. He sits back on his haunches and wipes his forehead; the room has become sweaty with the shower running. Bucky’s head falls back, exposing the pale column of his throat, and Steve stares.

            “If you need a place to stay—” Steve begins warily; inviting strange men into his house isn’t something he usually does, especially if they’ve been shot at, but this is Bucky.

            Bucky cuts him off by pulling him close, his breath hot against Steve’s ear. Hair tickles his check. “I’m not the person you knew,” he utters. Pause. “I joined the Army. Black ops. Alexander Pierce – he recruited me – us. It was…” Bucky’s breath catches and his grip on Steve’s arm falters. “So much blood, Steve. But I can’t remember – we can’t – he took that away. He took all of it away.”

            Bucky leans back, helpless; Steve thinks it’s the most words he’s heard from him this entire time. “I got out,” he whispers, like a prayer. “I got out.” His jaw clenches. Steve can tell he won’t be saying anything more.

            He leaves Bucky his bedroom and says he’ll take the couch. When he closes the door behind, him the last thing he sees is Bucky’s eyes, gleaming and silvered just like his arm.

            Pulling out his phone to call Nat, his fingers still on the screen and he frowns slightly. Bucky – who is apparently some sort of assassin, and he has an _assassin_ in his bed right now, Jesus – is obviously still a target. And it seems as though he doesn’t trust SHIELD to let him explain, because from what Steve’s heard, it seems as though someone else is pulling strings.

 _Alexander Pierce_. He files the name away carefully.

            Steve’s heart is in his throat. SHIELD isn’t a government organization, but they’re legitimate where Bucky is not. He’s committing a federal offense if he’s harboring a well-known criminal.

            But Steve can’t shake the feeling that _something_ is off, which is why he sits down at his laptop to Google Alexander Pierce before calling the cops.

            Pierce has the look of a man who used to be handsome and has let himself become jaded. He was some sort of pioneer in neuroscience and pharmacology, working on a memory-enhancing drug to aid in court cases relying on witness statements. If Bucky is telling the truth, Steve thinks grimly, it must have gone the other way. Memory- _erasing_.

            He disappeared from the grid years ago, when Bucky and Steve were still in school together. There’s no record on him since them.

            Steve worries his bottom lip between his teeth, a nervous habit he hasn’t been able to kick, and so he nearly bites off a good chunk of skin when his phone buzzes and startles him.

            It’s a text from Nat, reading: _WS still loose. Keep an eye out, he already found u once._

            He texts back quickly, thanking God that she didn’t call him. He was never a good liar. _Will do. Why the shooting?_

            The three dots come up before disappearing. _He went rogue,_ she finally replies. _Whatever organization he was working for couldn’t contain him, and SHIELD hates unpredictability._

            Steve shuts off his phone and turns watchful eyes to his bedroom door. Christ. Bucky hasn’t tried to hurt him yet, but it’s only been an hour or so.

            He calls in sick to work, considering he was shot, and putters around his kitchen and sitting area while he wrestles with a dilemma that shouldn’t be a dilemma for any sane and law-abiding citizen. He just doesn’t think Bucky could do those things, or at least would choose to do those things, and so his former best friend sleeps in his room while Steve runs his hands over his gun.


End file.
